


The Sun'll Come Out

by ottertrashpalace



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boxing, F/M, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Season/Series 02, Some sexy times, avocado family cuddles, but not too sexy, discussions of consent, i left elektra out of this because she deserved more than a romance subplot, implications of possible non con, it's not really it's just a 3+1, semi canon compliant, that sounds super dark, the end of s2 never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 04:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12004950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ottertrashpalace/pseuds/ottertrashpalace
Summary: Matt has had some bad experiences with dating, so he kinda doesn't.Or: three times Matt Murdock got fucked over and the one time he didn't.





	The Sun'll Come Out

**Author's Note:**

> cheers, have a fic that i'm 99% sure has already been written a million times but i just couldn't help it. hope you enjoy.

1.

“Sweetheart, you don’t know how handsome you are, do you?” simpered the sorority girl. Jamie? Naomi? They all wore the same nose-searing perfume, and Matt had given up trying to tell them apart.

“I haven’t gotten the chance to look, no,” he managed, making himself cringe. God, was this what it had come to? His first college party, and he was going straight for the blind jokes. He wanted to kick his own ass.

The sorority girl—Jamie, it was definitely Jamie—just laughed harder than she should've and came a little closer. He was inhaling so much perfume that he was sure he wouldn’t smell anything for days. 

“C’mere, sweetie, let me show you something,” She murmured, and took his hands, guiding them low on her hips and pressing her form to him. The curve of her lips made his breath catch, and he let his fingers tuck under the waistband of her shorts, where he could feel the top of lacy underwear. 

She started to walk them away from the noise of the party, and Matt let her pull him into a room with a futon and no people to get in their way. They fell back onto it, and started making out in earnest. She made quick work of his shirt and glasses, and then got really busy staring at his chest.“Jesus, sweetheart,” she breathed, “they let you play football?”

He choked out a laugh. “Not football, no.” 

Jamie sat up on top of him and pulled off her shirt in one smooth motion, swooping straight back down for a kiss. He reached up and fumbled with her bra. Finally, the hooks came undone, and he pressed a kiss to her collarbone, wrapping one arm around her and using the other to flip them over. She gasped a little, surprised, and let out a breathy giggle.

“Didn’t see that coming, huh?” he quipped. 

She giggled again and wrapped her legs around his waist, rolling back on top. “You’re cute.”

 

By all accounts, it should have been a sweet memory. Matt sauntered home with a skip in his step around two am. It would have been totally perfect if he hadn’t passed by a group of perfume-smelling girls a few days later, and caught a few words in passing— “oh my god, totally worth it, even though he was, like, blind. He was _soo_ easy!” 

Matt didn’t set foot in a sorority house once in the next four years.

 

2.

Maybe making friends with Marci had been a mistake. Not because she was sleeping with Foggy (loudly. In his and Matt’s apartment. At least three times a week), but because she was too smart for her own good. Hell, he’d been living with Foggy for three years, and he still seemed to think Matt was as hetero as they come, but here Marci was, sprawled out inelegantly on the couch as they hate-watched Pretty Little Liars, and she just sort of sniffed and went, “you’re not straight, are you?”

Matt spluttered. “I—what—“

“You fuck all those girls, but you’re not straight. Bisexual?” 

“Yeah,” Matt all but whispered, suddenly hoarse. How…?

“Matthew Murdock. You have not once failed to make every straight man in our Torts seminar blush when you beat them in an argument. That takes a special kind of talent.”

“Marci, that’s because I’m blind. They don’t expect me to be smart.”

“Nuh-uh,” she said smugly. “It's definitely your homosexual aura.”

“Whatever,” He muttered. He wasn’t going to be able to outmaneuver her on this, especially since she was right.

“Oh my God!” She squealed, bouncing slightly. “We are so going to gay clubs together and I am SO getting you laid!” 

“Are you now,” he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose slightly.

 

She did. 

Marci was having the time of her life—“I swear, gay dudes are so hot! You have no idea how lucky you are. Plus fewer toxic masculinity complexes!”—and the bartender seemed to like him well enough, so Matt found himself perched on the last barstool, trying to get his bearings. He didn’t like clubs that much, what with his senses, and also generally because he preferred to get drunk in places that were less full of horny strangers. Not to mention that the cane was useless with so many moving bodies everywhere, making it hard to keep up appearances. 

“Can I get a PBR?” drawled a baritone voice. Matt tilted his head. Tall guy, not a whole lot of clothing. Breathing hard from dancing. “And… whatever the gentleman wants.”

Matt raised his eyebrows. Couldn’t hurt. Besides, maybe it would get Marci off his back. “I'll take a martini,” he decided, turning towards the guy.

“Name’s Alex,” he said.

“Matt.”

“You come here often?”

Matt chose to ignore the awful line and shook his head, opting for the truth. “My first time, actually. You seem like a regular.”

Alex chuckled. “You could say that, huh, Ahmed?” He glanced at the bartender, who snorted in assent. “Sunofabitch never leaves,” Ahmed grumbled.

“What can I say?” Alex replied magnanimously. He was moving—spreading his hands, maybe?—the noise was really throwing off Matt’s ability to focus. Well, not just the noise.

“Wanna dance?” Alex asked. Matt just swallowed and nodded. 

Alex didn’t seem to mind Matt keeping his hand on his arm—and it was a very nice arm— as they made their way to the dance floor. Matt didn’t exactly have moves, but this was less dancing and more grinding, which he could definitely get into. Alex slowly moved into his space, and Matt let him, feeling the delicious friction against his ass and letting his back press into the broad chest behind him. Alex nipped at his ear and reached around front to cup him, and before Matt knew it, they were stumbling into the men’s bathroom in the back and necking furiously. He always relished the subtle differences between guys and girls when it came to this sort of thing—the texture of lipstick, for instance, or the body hair that most guys had and most girls didn’t, or the stubble on the jaw. With Alex it was the wide, callused fingers, that dug into his thighs and drove him wild. He had just started to work on Alex’s belt when he felt his glasses slip off, and the body under his hands froze. 

“Dude… what the hell.” Alex croaked. 

Matt felt a sinking, nauseous feeling invade his stomach.  “Uh, I’m blind.” he managed. What had he expected?

“No shit. I just didn’t—it’s so creepy, man. I dunno.” 

Matt’s arms fell limply to his sides. “Sorry. I get it. Lemme just—“ he fumbled for his glasses, which had fallen somewhere in front of him.

“Nah, I don't think I can get it up again,” Alex said dismissively. “Hope you have a nice night.” And he walked out, just like that, leaving Matt crawling around on the gross bathroom floor that smelled a lot like the things he'd thought he might be doing right then. He found them, shoved them back on his face, and pushed his way out, through the crowd, towards where Marci was drunkenly grinding on some laughing, equally wasted twink. 

“We’re going home.” He hissed, and dragged her out. 

“Aw, Matty, what happened?” She slurred.

_Matty?_

“Forget it.”

 

3.

The punching bag swung tauntingly in front of Matt’s nose. He could hear his dad’s discontent in the back of his mind, and yeah, maybe he shouldn’t be relying on the gym to sweat off all of his day-to-day frustrations, but damn did it ever work.

Every time his fist connected with the leather, and sent another cloud of sneeze-inducing dust into the air, he felt a little bit of his stress melt away. Left hook, lead right, _fuck Professor Bradshaw_ , right hook, check hook, pull, _fuck the girl who almost bumped me into a busy street_ , left cross, shoulder roll, right corkscrew, _fuck midterms_.

“Hey there, mister,” said a low female voice from his left as he sat down afterwards, towel around his neck. She was in her mid twenties, probably a student, and smelled like Chanel No. 5. The accent said midwest, but the shoes and the expensive scarf in her bag told him that she’d lived in Manhattan for at least the past two years. Parents were probably wealthy-ish realtors or dentists. “Nice work back there. You box?”

Matt chuckled. “Not so much. Do you?”

“I took some classes in high school. Enough to know that your form is too good for an amateur.”

“My dad used to. He taught me a thing or two.” Matt braced himself. Here it comes.

“Huh. Makes sense.” That caught his attention. Usually, people asked. Maybe this was the benefit of talking to someone from Nebraska. No… Illinois. Iowa?

“Wanna go a few rounds?” He asked, tilting his head towards the ring, before he thought better of it—he was only human after all. Her heartbeat was slightly elevated—excited?—but steady. He could hear Foggy moaning litanies of  _how do you always find the hot ones?_

“You sure?” she said. “I mean, yeah, alright. It’s been a while.”

She was going to go too easy on him at first, of course, but it’s not like Matt was doing this for the sake of serious practice.

He stood up and held out his hand. “I’m Matt.”

“Hailey,” she said, shaking it firmly. She had a really nice voice, like an audiobook narrator voice. This was definitely a good idea.

They strapped up their hands and made their way up to the ring, which was always empty at this time of the evening. If Hailey was surprised at the easy way he navigated the ropes on his way up, she didn’t say anything.

They circled a little bit, and Matt went ahead and threw the first punch, a light jab. She dodged it easily, but her heart jumped, betraying her surprise. Matt suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Emboldened, she returned the blow, and blew out a breath of delight as he pulled back easily. She was pretty good, and they found a decent rhythm, exchanging blows in a way that made Matt feel a whole lot more than stress relief.

“Dad taught me a few things my ass!” She panted, but the shape of her smile bled through the complaint. 

Matt just grinned. “I spend a lot of time at the gym.”

“Oh, that I can see.” Hailey said, her voice dropping lower.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Matt replied in kind.

“Oh my god.” She laughed. “Well, maybe I’ll have to show you, then.” 

They were shifting closer together, as if there was gravity there. Her breath was hot on his neck. 

 

They made it back to her place, and Matt’s hair got decidedly ruffled in the process. She smelled like hot sweat and lingering vestiges of Chanel, and Matt kinda sorta really wanted to sink his teeth into that. She had gone and pushed him into the seat of the cab on the way over, and yeah, he could get into that. He was totally ready for a nice evening, praying that there were still a few condoms in his gym bag, when they reached the door to her apartment and there was definitely another heartbeat on the other side. Based on the context and the weight of the footsteps, it was a woman. 

“You have a roommate?” He asked her casually as she fished for keys.

She froze for a second, and her heart rate spiked. Alarm bells started blaring in his head. “Yeah, um,” she unlocked the door and there was indeed a roommate on the other side, except she definitely wasn’t a roommate, because there was one bed, and nowhere near enough beer in the fridge, and one coat by the door, and the whole place just smelled like Hailey and there was a pair of handcuffs sitting on the bedside table next to an open bottle of lube. 

“Come on in,” said the not-roommate. Then, as Hailey brushed past her on the way to the kitchen counter, she whispered, “This one's gonna be fun,” and that was it.

“Were you even going to ask?” Matt said flatly. Both women froze.

“…What?”

“Forget it. Fuck. Go to hell, the both of you. You tried your bullshit on the wrong guy. I’m blind, not stupid.”

And with that he was out the door and storming down the stairs, his cane forgotten under his arm. That night, he made do with a scalding shower and two awful cheap beers, all while Foggy looked on with concern but didn’t say anything. That was the good thing about Foggy—he rarely did.

 

+1. 

It all started a few weeks after the Punisher debacle, when they all got together after a long week and got a little too drunk. The plan had been to crash at Foggy’s, since it was closest, but when it came time to settle down, Matt gave in and just kissed Karen. And then he kissed Foggy. And then… well, things got interesting.

Not quite as interesting, though, as what happened the next morning when they all woke up in the same bed, mostly naked, with soul-crushing hangovers and the sheets sticking to their skin in odd ways.

Though their collective memories of the previous evening’s events were murky at best, they pieced things together pretty quickly, and it was clear that they needed to talk. So Foggy fried some eggs, poured them each a mug of dark Irish coffee, and they sat down at his table, seemingly at a loss for words.

Foggy made the first attempt. “Ahem. So. First of all, is there anyone who wants to just pretend that never happened? Because that would probably simplify things.”

Silence. Nobody moved. Foggy cleared his throat again. “Right. So we’re doing this.” 

Karen let out a sigh and shifted slightly in her seat. “To be totally honest, I had, um, been thinking about this. For a while. Never thought it would actually happen, though.”

They both looked at Matt. “We’re looking at you, bud,” Foggy clarified, and for some reason, that gave Matt the strength to say what he’d been thinking. “If you’re both okay with this…”

Foggy rolled his eyes fondly. “I’m rolling my eyes. Oh, Saint Matthew, what are we gonna do with you? We need to know how you feel about this, not what you think we do.”

“I’m not sure.” Matt admitted. “I don’t want to get in between you two…”

At which Karen spat out her coffee, and Foggy muttered, “Pretty sure that’s the whole point.”

“Jesus, Matt, if that’s what you think this is, maybe we shouldn’t,” Karen said seriously. 

Matt shook his head. “I guess I’m just confused. Last night was fun, but the both of you… actually want to date me?”

“And vice versa, I hope,” Foggy replied with a grin.

“I, just, you shouldn’t have to deal with… everything. My other job. I always manage to drag you into something or other that gets you hurt. You don’t deserve that, either of you.”

Karen set her mug down firmly on the table. “I’ll decide what I do and don’t want, thank you very much. I mean, what about my reporting on Union Allied? Or Foggy’s—uh, I don't know what he gets up to, to be honest, but it’s probably something.”

“Point is,” Foggy jumped in, “we all have baggage. Sure, we aren’t all vigilante ninjas with superpowers, but we’re all adults, and we choose what we get into. This is us, choosing this. Choosing you. Don’t think that we’re stupid enough to let the best piece of ass this side of the Hudson slip by on a guilt complex.”

He meant it lightly, but that little comment just enough to put Matt over the edge.

“Don’t you get it, Foggy?” Matt all but yelled, standing up too fast and making his head throb again, “That’s all there is in this for you. I’m a great fuck, and then what? I know the drill. This is where you leave, and we stop talking, and I remember why I never do THIS!”

Silence. He felt his shoulders slump, and waited for the angry footsteps heading towards the door. They didn’t come. He could smell salt, and shit, that was Foggy, Foggy was crying, and Karen was close, and he was crying—

“Matty,” Karen said quietly, “breathe, please. Breathe. I’m sorry.”

Why was she apologizing?

“C’mere,” Foggy said, his voice breaking as he stood. Matt let himself be engulfed in familiar arms, which smelled like the sriracha he’d spilled on his shirt and that warm undertone that had always hung around the edges of their shared space in college. It smelled like home.

And then Karen got up and carefully embraced him from behind, her hair tickling his neck and warm figure pressed to his back. Unbidden tears slipped onto Foggy’s shoulder, making a little wet patch that grew and grew as they just kept coming. Matt couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried like this.

 

It took a few more lengthy discussions, and at least a week of thinking on all sides, but they eventually concluded that the three of them would be happiest together. It was just so nice to be able to pile up onto one couch at the end of the day, tangled together to the point where it wasn’t clear where one ended and another began, and relax in the familiar proximity. They knew their way around each other already, and Matt even started to wonder how they'd ever functioned  _not_ like this.

Karen took it upon herself to revamp Matt’s pantry and fridge, buying sheets and sheets of braille-worthy sticker paper that she would sit with on a weekly basis and label all of his groceries.

“You really don’t need to do that,” he told her, sitting down beside her, “I can smell most of it. Mostly.”

And she just laughed and said, “It’s therapeutic. I’m a secretary. We like organizing shit.”

“Paralegal in training,” he corrected her, and she just elbowed him gently. 

“Shh… I can feel all of my stress just dripping away.” She collapsed melodramatically across his lap, and he just had to laugh. Who was he to argue with that? So they sat on the kitchen floor with Matt’s braille printer and endless sticker paper and Matt gave her a massage, anyway, claiming that he didn’t believe in the restorative power of doing yet more work. She laughed even harder at that, and once he realized why, he joined in. Okay, yeah, birds of a feather. He was in love.

Foggy tended to be the one flipping through their briefs at the kitchen table, shaking his head and whinging fondly about his two idiot partners. Matt promptly reminded him that he’d once taken a case in exchange for a homemade cuckoo clock, which they all knew was absolutely true, no matter how much Foggy hedged. 

“I liked the little song,” he admitted in the end, ignoring the undignified way that Matt and Karen were almost literally rolling around on the floor with mirth. 

After he finally gave up on the briefs, they all made their way to Matt’s hideous, old, slightly bloodstained couch and watched a few episodes of Futurama, before Karen dragged them all to bed around midnight. 

And this was when Matt realized just how lucky he was. Foggy, all warmth and broad shoulders and sweet-smelling hair on his left, and Karen’s gentle lines and cool fingertips and smooth cheeks to his right. He didn’t always sleep in the middle, but for one reason or another, it had started to become their routine, especially on nights when he patrolled. So yeah, he’d say he had gotten pretty damn lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was my first time writing in Daredevil-verse-- i'm kinda thinking I might branch out into mattxpeter parker stuff? Please leave thoughts and suggestions in the comments, I'd love to hear some prompts.  
> Kudos and comments are always welcome!


End file.
